


Identity Theft

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anyways, Bipolar Disorder, Borderline Personality Disorder, Depression, Dissociative Identity Disorder, HUGE AU, IM FUCKED, Mental Illness, Multi, Mycroft is human, PTSD, Queerplatonic Relationships, RISKY READ, Serial Killer Sherlock, Spoilers for Season Four, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempts, Trigger Warnings, but ciro exists so, ciro isn't supposed to make sense, did, haha - Freeform, heavy psychology, i'm sorry there is too much psychology, identity theft, it gets "better", its ok tho, kind of, life-long lies, lol, polyamorous, tw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-17 14:36:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9329285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: There is a killer who seasonally kills people in gruesomely creative ways—and he is known as the "Winter Killer". John is predicted to be on that list, but then things go wrong and downhill. Now Sherlock is kidnapped, thoroughly drug-addled, and traumatized.But it doesn't end there. It never does. Mary Watson was the Winter Killer's "grand finale". And yet she lived, and the source of Sherlock's traumatization is a living, breathing brother who will relentlessly harass him even after death. Question is, how will Sherlock survive it all…? He's bound to die within a decade, predictors say, and he wouldn't leave without a bang. Or without his stolen identity.





	1. Merry Murder

**Author's Note:**

> i am new to ao3 so i'm experimenting??? also experimenting with this kind of story. a serial killer sherlock au is fairly uncommon and difficult to come across. yes, there are stories but omg this is the story idea i couldn't let go or find. why not write it myself?? i'm having so much fun with it…  
> BUT! BE WEARY OF TRIGGER WARNINGS! SUICIDE IS A HEAVY THEME THROUGHOUT THE STORY! SO IS MENTAL ILLNESS!  
> enjoy :)

 

_ Chapter 1: Merry Murder _

* * *

       "A murder on Christmas eve…that's a bit of a surprising one," John pondered out loud as he entered the flat after Sherlock.

   "Are you surprised? Killers don't have holidays," Sherlock pointed out.

   "Ah, there you are," Lestrade greeted abruptly. "You got here quick."

   "Yes, you mentioned the signature of the Winter Killer," Sherlock pointed out. "I was hoping he'd start killing after Christmas. Appears that I'll have to miss my parents' dinner party though. How unfortunate. Mummy's cookies will go to waste…"

   John looked at him. "You didn't want to go in the first place."

   "We don't need a history review, John. Lestrade—where's the body?"

   The DI pointed up to the ceiling, where an aged brunette woman with short greying hair and blue eyes was pinned by the flesh with all sorts of knives. Her stomach was exposed, split open to reveal a bunch of shimmering tinsel and red fancy ribbons. The final touch was some mistletoe, dripping with blood by the leaf's.

   "Um…who is the Winter Killer, exactly?" John asked squeamishly.

   "A serial killer who only kills in the winter seasons," Sherlock explained. He grabbed a small ladder that was with a standby officer and propped it to examine her. "What was left behind other than this mess?"

   John frowned. "You're seriously asking for evidence?"

   "Can't be too resourceless, John. He's been running rampant for five years now, and someone this experienced and artistic in killing has likely killed tens of more people," Sherlock pointed out. "He doesn't leave much behind. He's nearly as clever as I am…"

   " _Nearly_?"

   "He's very elusive, and can't live without a method of killing," Sherlock explained. He moved the victim's lips, searching for something John didn't know but was sure he'd find. "Namely, the method is opening your door and letting the cold air in."

   "Let me guess, it lures his victims out," John said.

   "No, he doesn't _need_ a lure. Their home is their sanctuary, they feel safe. Opening the door is his mark, his victims closing it is his green light," Sherlock explained. He was frowning and checking behind the woman's ears—in her hair, down her shirt…he even went as far as thoroughly patting her down for something.

   But he came out without anything to present.

   Lestrade looked at him, obviously annoyed by it. "Nothing?"

   "There is no such thing as _nothing_ , Lestrade. He left _something_ behind. I'm sure of it."

   "He left a body behind," Lestrade pointed out.

   The genius rolled his eyes. "I can see that. What was used to cut her stomach open?"

   "We don't know yet."

   "It was probably scissors…the edges are too rough for a knife. Ironic. Hm…were there any bloody scissors?"

   "Well…no—"

   "You should really start looking, then."

   Lestrade sighed, shaking his head a little and looking at his forensics. "Go search," he told them. They quickly got to work.

   Sherlock huffed through his nose in disappointment as he stepped down the latter. He handed his mini-slide glass over to John, who hesitantly took it with a frown. "See if you can find anything. I'm checking everything else."

   "We already got forensics doing that," Lestrade stated.

   "Are they Sherlock Holmes?"

   "No…"

   "Great, then I can check everything else."

   The DI didn't move to stop Sherlock as he slipped by, instead keeping an eye on John and making sure that the crime scene wasn't contaminated.

   "What was her cause of death?" John asked.

   "She hit her head on the corner of her kitchen countertop. There's a pool of blood there," Lestrade explained, gesturing to the entrance to the said kitchen. "Blood spatter analyses so far has told us she fell."

   "Fell or tripped?"

   "We don't know; but falling seems more likely. Her right ankle is twisted in a way that suggests falling," Lestrade replied.

   "This killer sounds…thorough…" John muttered absently as he desperately searched through the roots of her hair for something—or anything, really. He could imagine Lestrade's frustration, but Sherlock was a bit beyond him.

   "He is," the detective went on. "His previous kill almost got listed as an accident. But Sherlock managed to rebut it because of a feather."

   John blinked, a small smile working its way in. But it quickly faded as he gently wrapped his hands around the back of her neck, feeling for any other missed injury.

   Instead, he pulled out a needle.

   He blinked in surprise, stepping down the ladder and showing it off to Lestrade. "Was she a drug addict?"

   "No…or, at least, I don't think so," he muttered. John placed it in the evidence bag that was quickly presented to him. "Well, then, I guess her cause of death wasn't all that _natural_."

   John smiled briefly, opening his mouth to excuse himself and find Sherlock. But he was abruptly interrupted when the woman suddenly fell from the ceiling, exposing her back that was coated in blood. The flesh was cut into to portray the carving on an incrediably detailed depiction of a baby. What made it even more gruesome was the fishing lines holding her up by the skin.

   Everyone jumped back in surprise, some turning away at the sight and others losing whatever train of thought they had. Sherlock quickly reentered the room, and almost as quickly, he cringed at the sight— _flesh held up by steel hooks and a single heavy duty fishing line braided to let her hang low enough to the ground._ "I almost gave up hope," he said.

   The army doctor looked at him, appalled by his demeanor in such a situation. "On what?"

   "The kick," Sherlock told him.

   "What _kick_?"

   " _The_ kick, John. The Winter Killer likes to add a bit more spunk."

   "Isn't pinning a body up to the ceiling with knives enough?"

   "No."

   John frowned at him, but he didn't press. This killer was clearly very different than anything that they've dealt with before. And that was saying something, because their last unique enemy was James Moriarty, and that almost didn't end well.

   Sherlock cleared his throat and let his lips twitch in excitement. "Tell Mary we'll be cutting into your time. This case is taking priority."

* * *

       Margo Franklin was an unfortunate case of an untimely seizure and a knife. Mr. Franklin seemed to be disbelieving and skeptical, but Sherlock could see the relief in his eyes that she didn't suffer the unfortunate case of a brutal murder. Her case was called "The Flashing Cut".

   Richard Jacques, a tourist of London, was a purposeful vehicular murder. He was on a bit of a runaway mission from his sister, who was violent and hated him for trying to help her contain her violence. John promptly wrote about it on his blog, and called it "An Unfortunate Ending".

   Atari Matsumoto was a self-sabotage gone wrong—it was too simple to be written about in paragraphs. John just updated his twitter on it's status.

   Maggie McLauren was another murder, but it was done with a paper cut. Quite simple, really…yet, creative. Some poisons are marvelous in disappearing after a few hours.

   John had yet to write about the McLauren case. In fact, he neglected it. The Winter Killer struck again, and he decided to politely decline breakfast on Christmas morning. Mary seemed a bit emotional about him leaving, but she understood. Molly wanted to join, but it ended in a rejection. John knew that she worked in the morgue, but he also knew that she didn't work violent crimes like this.

   Sherlock was standing outside the flat with his hands tucked in his pockets and his head tipped up to the second floor of the house where a woman was strung up, flaps of her flesh spanning out in the wings of an angel over a blood painting of a swaddled baby on the window.

   John joined his side, looking up at it with a cringing expression. "That doesn't look very…um…"

   "He's enjoying the holidays," Sherlock said with a smile. But it dropped pretty quickly. "Such intricate art has been made within a day of each other. The murder from yesterday told us that there were six other skin tissues under her nails. She was also pregnant," he went on, his pristine sea blue eyes studying John. "What do you think it means?"

   The army doctor briefly looked at him before turning his head back to the victim. "The tissue…sounds like a countdown. And maybe the pregnancy is a demographic thing…"

   Sherlock grinned. "Indeed it is. He's counting down to _something_ with his victims expecting children, I just don't know what yet." His grin became much more lively than before. John could tell that he was vibrating with absolute excitement.

   "Let me guess," John muttered. "The game is on."

   "Yes it is, and it's bloody," Sherlock said. "So far it's been holiday-themed. He enjoys celebrating religious holidays. But releasing it in this manner suggests something of an empathetic disorder—like psychopathy. He is a sadist, and has intelligence. But you likely wouldn't be able to see it; killers like this are amazing at blending in. They could be your best friend and you wouldn't know it."

   John looked at him. "Have you deduced anything else?"

   "Those deductions weren't recent, John. But so far he has targeted four winter holidays of both old and new. This is his fifth. He's just about halfway finished. There are about ten or so holidays that happen throughout December. Who's to say that he will go on a killing spree like this in January? My, that would be a disaster…exciting, but disastrous…"

   "Shouldn't we go in and…look it over?"

   "No, I already did that. Too gruesome for Christmas, and we both know that you have a pregnant wife who would be displeased by your bitter mood."

   "And yet you did it," John muttered.

   "Yes, that's because I can hold my breakfast. I've seen plenty of violent crimes like this, you haven't. Such…mm, _craftsmanship_ isn't on the battlefield. Our esteemed killer stuffed claymore into a victims stomach, and when the door opened it blew out his body. The most fascinating part was that was when the Winter Killer rigged it to not be motion-sensitive. I was there, I was actually the one to open the door. My, the burns and blood…so gross, but quite interesting. You'd imagine the carnage. A DI quit because of it. But, really, we must talk about the clues he's left behind for us. What do you make of the needle?"

   "The…the needle?" John echoed. He honestly felt a little weak after hearing that, because he actually remembered seeing gauze wrapped around his right hand that extended up to however far up his arm it needed to go when they first met.

   "Yes, the needle. Tell me about it. What was it like?"

   "Um…well…it was small…" John stated. "It had traces of heroin in it. It was hidden behind her neck…and it looked like the kind that would come from the hospital, and not some kind a junkie could get their hands on. Not to mention, she didn't have any past connection to drugs. So it wasn't meant to be a means of framing…maybe he injected it in her and she fell while high?"

   "Yes, that's very good. I've actually fallen whilst high before. I almost hit my head on a sharp corner. Would've been my funeral if I hadn't caught myself awkwardly," Sherlock ranted.

   "So…what, he didn't want to do the deed directly?"

   "Entirely possible. Our killer might have enough empathy to feel guilt—and it's a pattern. This victim died of an overdose on sleeping pills, but she was skinned post-mortem. The claymore victim committed suicide hours before. And the victim before that got hit by a car."

   "So…our killer works in a morgue?"

   "Or a funeral home. Or the law enforcement. Or, he doesn't. He might just be a brilliant master at breaking and entering."

   "You can't smuggle bodies out of morgues…"

   "Yes, that would be too difficult. So, John, how would you have done it?"

   "Taken the body before they were collected."

   "Correct. All of the victims most likely saw his face last before dying. Or he pushed them to do their deeds."

   "Like that cab killer."

   " _Or_ the cab killer is like him."

   "Are you saying that the cab killer copied _him_?"

   "In a way, possibly."

   John squinted up at the victim. "Why draw in blood? And what about the kick?"

   "The drawing shows a baby. And nolive how her hands are clasped together? She's praying over it. An angel praying over a bloody baby…" He chuckled. "Quite symbolic. It could mean anything, though."

   "She looks a lot like the last victim."

   "Yes, blue eyes, shirt auburn hair that is mostly grey and pale skin, in her late forties, and married to a blonde," Sherlock listed. "She was also expecting a child. We don't know where her fetus is, though."

   John's stomach twisted. "He took her _fetus_?"

   "No idea. But we've managed to narrow it down to eighteen potential victims that follow this one," he stated. He cleared his threat nervously, his posture tightening up and his coat clutching his frame. "You're…uh, one of them."

   John looked at him in alarm. "But I'm not female," he rebutted.

   "But you're expecting a child," Sherlock pointed out. "You're also blue-eyed, in your forties, and have short auburn-brown hair that is grey. Not to mention, you're married to a blonde woman and you are planning on becoming a Christian family. Do you see, John? You're a potential target. Gender doesn't matter. In fact, he has a pattern. Two women, two men, two women, two men—and until he's finished, it goes on."

   John paled quite a bit. He swallowed nervously, shifting rather uncomfortably and clearing his throat. "Should we get back to Mary—"

   "Yes, we should, let's go."

   The Baker Street duo didn't even bother to inform everyone else that they were leaving. They just ducked under the yellow tape and dashed off as quickly as they could get into a cab.

* * *

       "Oh, John, you're back early! And you brought Sherlock, how nice of you to attend," Mrs. Hudson greeted as they entered John's home.

   John smiled, still a bit queasy and shivering with nerves as he gave her a hug of greeting. "Yes, I am. And I'm sorry for leaving so suddenly. Something popped up," John stated.

   "Oh, dear…you look a little pale. Was it the Winter Killer?" she asked worriedly, placing a hand between his shoulder blades. She guided him into the living room, but Sherlock didn't follow. Instead, he beelined to the stairs. He reached the second floor in a jiffy, deep sea blue eyes jumping about for the one thing he was looking for: John's gun.

   The game was on, and paranoia was his wind-up.

   It was stuffed under a few case files that were taken as souvenirs by John in his nightstand drawer. Obtaining it was…easy. Smooth. He had to guess that there was a no gun rule during the holidays. Perfect, he wouldn't notice until the cold crept in.

   "Sherlock?" John called from downstairs. "Are you up there? We're getting ready to open presents."

   "I'll be down in a second," Sherlock replied.

   "Hurry it up! We can't wait much longer," Mrs. Hudson echoed.

   Sherlock just rolled his eyes. He felt some sort of curiosity as to what kinds of case files John kept as a souvenir. Presents could wait; he didn't get anything for anyone else rather than John and Mary.

   He took the one on top, opening it up. It was a file folder on Moriarty—of course, it was thin. But keeping it was understandable, that was a sweet victory. He still had the apple Moriarty left.  
The second file was all about Sherlock.

   "Sherlock, what in the blaze are you _doing_? Get down here!" Mary shouted.

   Sherlock instantly knew to hurry. He's learned first-hand what it was like to be around a moody pregnant woman. It was interesting, he could agree with that, but he felt like he was on a leash…most times.

   He reset the files, putting a balled up pair of socks under them to replace the gun. He closed the drawer, and scurried downstairs.

   Everybody was sipping or eating something, patiently waiting in the living room with idle chatter.

   Their eyes trailed to him with love and greeting, but also minor annoyance and joy only the merriness the holidays could bring.

   Sherlock joined them, and from that point on, everything became a blur of Christmas.

* * *

      Mary and John didn't get to bed until nine. That was significantly early from them, they usually were eating around five and after that, they would work until late. Or they simply relaxed on the couch.

   They couldn't relax on the couch, and they didn't have to work. Sherlock took it, having fallen asleep merely a half an hour before. John had made sure he had a blanket and pillow before going upstairs.

   They both easily fell into their bed, tired from spending so much time enjoying the holidays. Sherlock had gotten them only one present. It was a mini van, but he forgot where he parked it last and the day carried on as a scavenger hunt. It turned out to be near Big Ben. Why, though, they didn't know and Sherlock blanked out. John wasn't sure if he wanted to believe it; Sherlock Holmes doesn't blank out, but they accepted the gift with smiles and surprise.

   "You know, I thought he'd left with Mrs. Hudson," Mary murmured.

   John hummed mirthfully. "He's too much like a baby. He'll probably wake up in a few hours and leave…"

   "Oh…that reminds me…why are there policemen parked outside of our home?"

   "Oh, that? Um, they're just…hanging out."

   "Uh-huh, I believe that. John, dear, what's _really_ going on?"

   "I…think Sherlock's worried that we might be a next target for the Winter Killer," John muttered.

   "…Oh."

   "Yup."

   "Is your gun nearby?"

   "Locked and loaded."

   "Good. Keep it close, you might need it."

   "…Do you think Sherlock will be safe?"

   "He'll be fine," Mary stated. "I…think."

   "Well that's not very reassuring."

   "He's Sherlock Holmes," she pointed out. "I'm fairly certain he'll be fine."

   John sighed reluctantly, but he didn't argue about it anymore. Instead, he drifted off to sleep.

   It felt like scant seconds passed when he woke up, shivering and feeling… _cold_.  
John jolted awake, scattering out of bed in alarm. "Mary—Mary, wake up."

   She sighed tiredly and woke at the sound of his concerned voice. "Why…? What's up…" She yawned. "Jesus, it's so cold…did you turn off the heater?"

   "That's the thing, I kept it high. It shouldn't be this cold," John snapped. He quickly slipped on some sweat pants, rushing to his nightstand to get his gun.  
But, alas, it wasn't there. In fact, it was replaced by a pair of socks. "Shit…"

   "What?" Mary asked, finally waking up.

   "My gun is gone."  
"I thought it was locked and loaded," she snapped.

   "I did too!" John retorred shortly, obviously frustrated and absolutely frantic. "I'm going downstairs. Sherlock's in danger."

   Mary couldn't fit much of another word in. John was already running downstairs, tense and fully prepared to get into a fight with an armed murderer.

   He was shaking with the cold and fear. He didn't bother to mind the open door that he was _meant_ to close.

   John's eyes drifted to the living room. He stared in surprise at the absolute mess. The tree was messed up, the decorations littering the floor. The coffee table was crooked and cracked and bloodied, and Sherlock was on the floor with an alarming amount of crims on liquid pooling around his head.

   His breath hitched in shock. He rushed up to his friend, his mind quickly assessing the damage. John couldn't feel a pulse, but his body was still warm, and when he saw that Sherlock's hand was partially clutched over his throat, he checked to see it.

   There was a slit over his carotid artery.

   He felt his breathing catch in his chest. John couldn't feel any more in shock than he could currently, and if he did he was positive that he would black out.

   But everything slipped ahead. He knew that he was taken out of his home, and put into the back of an ambulance with a shock blanket over his shoulders and Mary sympathetically clinging to his shoulder. Lestrade approached him, and that was what brought him back to reality.

   "I've…got good news, John," the DI said almost hesitantly.

   John looked at him. "What do you mean?"

   "The body is…it's a lookalike," he stated.

   "A…lookalike."

   "Yes, it was propped to scare you."

   " _Propped_?"

   "You have security cameras throughout your house," he pointed out. "We briefly looked over them. Someone, presumably the Winter Killer, came in through a second floor window and attacked Sherlock in the living room after he opened the door. They did fight, and Sherlock managed to shoot him, but he…uh, he got injured as well. And pretty badly, too."

   John looked at him speechlessly, feeling his chest tighten in a mixture of feeling. "Do you think he's still alive?"

   "We aren't sure, but we're optimistic. We've never caught him kidnapping someone before."

   "You said the attacker got injured."

   "Yes, there was a bit of blood spatter on the coffee table. We're hoping that it leads back to someone."

   "Did you find my gun?"

   "No, but last I saw, Sherlock had it."

   John blinked in surprise, looking up at Lestrade. "He did?" Odd. Too odd.

   "He shot it, that's how he managed to injure our suspect," the DI stated. "We are searching for it, but I'm not sure if it'll turn up."

   "I would've woken up if he took a shot."

   "We both would have," Mary pointed out.

   "If that's the case, then we'll have you both tested for any sort of sleeping gas or medicine. I'll notify the forensics—we'll see if you have anything. Do you pobsess any sleeping pills in your house as of now?"

   John looked at Mary questioningly, who nodded a little. "Yes," he replied in mutter.

   Lestrade didn't really say anything much beyond a farewell before John and Mary were driven away to the hospital.


	2. Stuck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whispers "slow burn chemistry" in ur ear*  
> lol enjoy :)

_ Chapter 2: Stuck _

* * *

       "I sorely need you to finish your work. A killer disappearing usually doesn't end well."

   Sherlock slightly turned his face towards his kidnapper, his breath labored with pain. His throat has been slit—namely the carotid artery. The cut didn't run deep enough to kill, and it didn't reach his wind pipe. He wasn't getting enough blood and the only way he's been treated thus far was by patching up his artery and having a needle transfer blood stuck in his arm. His external wound was still bleeding through layers and layers of gauze, and he could feel his body working around the clock. At this rate, he likely wouldn't survive for very long.

   "I know that you realize how dire of a situation you're in. I put it that way so you would listen to me."

   Sherlock couldn't see the man's face, but he knew that he had dark brown hair that was short and wavy with tightly curled ends and grey roots. Everything was too blurry, and the pain was most certainly an additional liability.

   "Mary is quite a devious angel, though, is she not?" the man went on. "John is infertile. He knows this, too, and yet he is to be a father. I wonder what that is all about. Perhaps she cheated? I wouldn't be so surprised. She's lied a lot."

   Sherlock felt himself react, his body jerking in the curled up position he was in, trapped in a blanket and some battered homeless man's clothing. They were likely in a parked car, and in some sort of lot that was distanced from eye sight. Or, maybe not. Hiding in plain sight was risky—but when utilized properly, it was the masterful art of a god. He looked up at the dark-haired man, squinting and trying with his best efforts to see.

   "Your work _must_ be completed, Sherlock. You must set up your next kill tonight. Your pattern has to be consistent. If you refuse to do it then I will sick my dogs on your friends and family, unborn or not." His voice dipped into a devious and serious tone. "I will do it, and you won't risk it. Save the trouble of a threat, Sherlock."

   He wheezed as he struggled to sit up, leaning over to get out of the bolted-down gurney. He felt hands quickly support him and place him where he once was.

   "Good, but you don't have to do anything else than the kill. Tell me, where do we go?"

   "…Hyde Park," he muttered with a dry voice.

   "Brilliant!" the man said with a voice of celebration. He got up and stepped into the front seat of the car—likely to be a van. "This will be a most exciting experience! Tell me, who is your next victim…?"

   Originally, it was going to be Mike Stamford. But he wanted to mess with John—make him unbelievably paranoid and suspect all sorts of things. Mary's pregnancy was to be one of them, but it obviously was going downhill. In fact, Mary was going to be his last kill of his serial killer career—after the baby was born, of course. He can kill his best friend's wife…just, not the child.

   He drifted into a disgusting sleep, untested and distasteful of dreams. Pain plagued him and kept him awake, but the lack of blood was getting increasingly uncomfortable. He found it difficult to breathe properly, and when he was taken from the gurney and into a…place, he felt extremely nauseated. He stumbled across the room, his vision dark and his head heavy. He felt like he was dying as he was in all honesty. Completing the kill would be impossible at this rate.

   In fact, he was surprised to be awake.

   "This man's name is Steven Wallis. He went missing a week ago," the man observed.

   Ah— _no, this isn't just any place._ This was the murder scene he planned on using the day after Mike. It was an abandoned warehouse with enough utility and props to be a perfect murder scene.

   "Come, now, brighten up. We can't keep the police waiting. What are you to do?"

   Sherlock rubbed his eyes, still wheezing and struggling to stay awake. "Bring him over here," he murmured with a dry throat. "Do…you have any glitter…? Or explosives, at the very least…"

   "I have a grenade on me."

   "Hm. Good enough…" he croaked. There was a wooden table in front of him, most likely placed in advanced, and the victim was laid down on it. His captor wrapped Sherlock's fingers around the hilt of a hunting knife, giving him support as he stood.

   "I'm guessing this is themed for the upcoming New Years," the man conversed.

   Sherlock practically chuckled, the knife cutting Steven's button-up shirt off with easy slices. It really was a beautiful knife; it would be a—lovely gift. Like the mini van.

   "I've always wondered about the cold and the holiday theme." Sherlock stabbed the victim's far side, vertically splitting his stomach open— _not much blood; why?_ "The creativity is most certainly unique and hilarious."

   Sherlock smirked drowsily, pulling out Steven's guts with his bare hands. He cut them out with as much precision as he could, letting them fall into a pile by his foot. But they were easy to cut— _why?_

   "The claymore was certainly gruesome. I heard you triggered it yourself."

   Sherlock made a sound of amusement. It was a bit surprising, that was for sure. He actually meant it for Donovan and Anderson as an act of revenge. It was his first time working with a claymore in a very long time, though. About a decade or so, in fact. Rigging it to work was a time-consuming process he didn't want to repeat, but he couldn't get a grenade in time without messing up his routine and that was absolutely unforgivable. Not to mention, he blacked out halfway through the kill and woke up listening to a client the next morning.

   "The kill before the kill with the claymore was rigged with poison gas, right?" the man continued as Sherlock pulled out Steven's kidney, liver and a few ugly layers of fat.

   "Yes," he confirmed with a crack of his vocals.

   "I heard it killed two officers and put a DI into a medically-induced coma."

   Sherlock just hummed quietly, frowning and staring into the gaping wound. He swore he saw a womb— _no, perhaps it's a fetus_ —and he's seen those plenty of times before.

   And then he chuckled. "I'm so clever," he suddenly said.

   "I would agree."

   "The last two women were pregnant. I took my most recent presentation's fetus and took it here. Ah! No wonder the guts were so easy to cut out…" he muttered.

   "What were you gonna do with the fetus?"

   Sherlock smiled as he picked the fetus up with his hand, gently placing it next to Steven's head. "It's all a series of hints to my grand finale," Sherlock said quietly. He paused, though. He felt a potential bombardment of emotions slowly start to trickle over him. But they broke the dam seconds later, and he was feeling too much to know what to do. He had to lean on the table and put one of his hands on the wooden surface to take a moment. He tucked his head into his elbow, wheezing with sopping wet breath. He was shaking, and his body was failing, and he couldn't bring himself to recognize the pain. It was absolutely suffocating.

    _"Mr. Sherrinford, I'm Detective Graham. This is Detective Crawford. I'm here to talk about your missing wife, Mrs. Sherrinford. May we come in?"_

_"Yes, of course. What is it? Do you have news of her whereabouts?"_

_"Well—yes…but they're unfortunate. I'm sorry to tell you this, Mr. Sherrinford, but…she's died an hour ago of blood loss."_

_"…She's dead."_

_"Yes. We're very sorry for your loss."_

_"…You're not joking."_

_"No, of course not. Never would we joke about a death. We don't act surprised either, which is exactly what you're doing."_

_"What are you talking about?"_

_"You killed her, Sherr—Sherlock. How could you? We loved you so dearly and yet you went behind my back and_ killed my wife _! You also had_ sex _with her? My god—my wife! You had_ sex _, with my_ wife _! You stole_ everything _, you bastard!_ How could you _!"_

   "Sherlock?"

   He blinked his eyes open, his head throbbing with absolute pain. Everything was a buzz of nothingness, backed by an abyss of shivering pain. He felt himself shake and he was unable to move.

   "Sherlock? Sherlock, where are you?"

   The genius scraped his bloody hands through his hair, sinking down and losing his strength. "I—I can't…I can't…I can't, I can't, I _can't_ …"

   "You can't _what_? What can't you do?"

   Honestly, he just needed John to be around. He didn't feel a stab when he was near. He felt dutiful— _protective_. So what was he doing now, targeting Mary and planning her demise? Taking such a precious gem away from John was unruly. What was he _doing_?

   "You've got a horrendous fever," the man muttered. "Hm. Maybe you should've taken more than a nap…"

   At that point Sherlock was huffing with the struggle of staying aware. But it all slipped away in seconds, and he blacked out in the moment he closed his eyes.

* * *

       The extra streak of blood's test came back a few days later. It matched one Sherrinford Holmes, a dark-haired man who was one of the oldest of Mycroft and Sherlock.

   It was most certainly a surprise. They weren't aware of a third Holmes brother existing.

   John had texted Mycroft and told him to haul ass to 221B. Shockingly enough, when he arrived, Mycroft was already there.

   "You said Sherlock has likely been taken by Sherrinford," Mycroft said as he entered the flat.

   John crossed his arms. "Yes, his blood was found at the crime scene," he stated. "Care to explain?"

   "No, but I do fear for the worst," Mycroft said. "I burned Sherrinford a long time ago, and it was for good reason."

   "Why?"

   "Sherrinford was violent and dangerous. He was also tyrannical and addicted to drugs. Thus we decided to… _burn_ him."

   "Let me guess, he introduced it to Sherlock," John said somberly.

   "Yes, and with Sherlock being secretly vulnerable throughout his younger years, he wasn't exactly paid attention to. He could slip away at a moment's notice and do almost whatever he wanted," Mycroft went on. "I was the one who pulled him from those houses with other addicts. I enrolled him into rehab centers and tracked his every move until I could trust him again. Sherrinford never really liked it. He went as far as trying to kidnap Sherlock—so to hear this happen, I am not surprised. However, I am surprised to hear that Sherrinford has mercilessly slit his artery."

   "How did you know that?"

   "I am the British Secret Services," Mycroft stated blandly.

   "Right, knows all sees all," John muttered. He walked over to his seat, sitting down and rubbing his face. "Yeah, okay. Bur _why_  would he do this?"

   "I don't know, I haven't seen him properly in nearly two decades," Mycroft pointed out. "But, before I came here, I checked his whereabouts. He was in Russia."

   " _Was_?"

   "It's all pre-recorded and edited. He is most likely to be in London," Mycroft stated.

   John stared at him. "So…he's the one who took Sherlock."

   "It's entirely possible."

   "Would he kill him?"

   "Depends on Sherlock, and Sherlock knows this."

   "…What, um…what about the dud?"

   "The decoy is a mark. Sherrinford is playing a dangerous life-or-death game, and whatever is being thrown at you next might just be the go."

   "What do you mean?"

   "Sherrinford was the psychopath of the family. He enjoyed playing all sorts of games. At the same time, he was branded as a pure genius." Mycroft smiled bitterly. "You can imagine the trauma he was capable of inflicting with an unrealistic number of PhD's in just about all sorts of psychology."

   John's face tightened in a frown. "This is really not good…"

   "I can vouch for that," Mycroft agreed. "Do you believe he is the Winter Killer?"

   "You said he was in Russia. Why?"

   "He isn't allowed on European soil without my know. I have every right to track all of his movements. He doesn't like that. So he stays away, and has been in Russia since. To hear him suddenly becoming a suspect in the Winter Killer case is most certainly alarming, and a bit distorting." Mycroft turned to the window, looking out with both his hands tightly wrapped around his umbrella.

   "Distorting? What makes you say that?"

   Mycroft stared down at the street, unmoving and unblinking. But then he looked at John with an expression that wasn't necessarily blank. It still remained monotonous in a strange way. "It is of unimportance," was all he said before he left the flat with a stiff air about him.

* * *

      "I also tipped the Yard off about your kill, so it should be upcoming news," Sherlock heard someone say.

   He blinked his blurry eyes, feeling drowsy and absolutely euphoric. "Wha'd you do…" he muttered tiredly, trying to move his arms. They were shaking violently and his muscles were unbelievably weak. Not to mention, there were cuffs. The chain was long enough for his hand to reach his head, but it wouldn't let him go farther than that. "What is that…"

   "I'm keeping you awake," the man, his captor, explained. "You have to relay your plans to me, Sherlock. I want your work to be completed."

   He looked up at the aging male, squinting in response to the antagonizing light that was shining over him. It was obscuring his face with dark shadows.  
"Why…?"

   "You'll leave London in peace that way," he provided.

   "Leave…leave London? _Why_? It's home…it's where John is."

   "Yes, I know, but you're not in a good spot. It has to be fixed or else everything will be a mess."

   "What'd you give me," he slurred, feeling distant from reality. His vision was swimming and curling and he could swear that there were little animated people jumping up and down on those waves.

   "Some LSD and heroin."

   Sherlock's eyes flew wide in shock as he looked up at the shadow of his captor. " _Heroin_? You gave me _heroin_?" It was true that he's injected some of it in the past, to see what it was like with cocaine, but the withdrawal was _horrible_. He had to be locked in a room because honestly it was unbelievably painful. He couldn't imagine the horror of being a heroin addict.

   "Yes, I did. I know you hate it," the man said. Sherlock could literally _hear_ the smug smile on his face. "It's going to be quite a hellish trip coming back. So, tell me, who is your next victim? Actually, scratch that. Were you going to kill John Watson?"

   "What? Oh, no, no…that was something else…" he muttered. "Alibi? No…wow, the ceiling looks _fascinating_ …"

   "Who was supposed to go before Steven Wallis?"

   "Em…" Sherlock squinted, feeling distracted and blanking out. He knew the first name. It was Mike. And his last name might've started with an S, but he couldn't remember that clearly. "Mike…S-something?"

   "I can do a quick Mike S. hunt," the man stared. "Late forties, blue eyes, fair skin, auburn-brown hair—greyed, married to a blonde and expecting to be a father. Those are your standards, right?"

   "Do you have any sugar…? That sounds most delicious right now…oh—wait! No. What's even better is that…bright blue…drink? Or, no…it's, um…" But Sherlock trailed off when he stared at the shadows. He saw the gentle glint of a camera lens through the small people and the swimming vision. He laughed, numb to the pain and exhaustion. "You're _recording_ me! Is it live? Oh, I'd hate for that to go to evidence…I have a great idea for revenge, though. Do you wan' hear it?"

   "No."

   "Oh! And guess what!"

   "What?"

   "Mm…never mind. I'll tell you later…can you shut up, though? I'm trying to think."

   "No, you have to tell me your plan for this kill."

   "Oh, yes. Of course Your Highness," Sherlock snarked sarcastically. He frowned. "Take the body to…um…"

   "To where?"

   "Chel…Kingston? No—no, Chelsea. I think. I'm sure."

   "How would I do it?"

   "Um…" Sherlock shifted a little, feeling dehydration and hallucinations taking its toll. "Have deer antlers on you. He'll die of an overdose. Don't care what, just make sure he overdoses. Perch him on the antlers, and leave him in an alleyway."

   "Is that it?"

   Sherlock just closed his eyes and hummed, feeling the urge to steeple his hands and to think deeper on what to add. "…Glitter and a baby drawing. Preferably on his stomach…" He closed his eyes in the midst of discomfort and the haunting voice of a betrayed John Watson. But it wasn't like he could dote on that. He was currently more concerned with the withdrawal of heroin. It made his heart speed up, and his fear was skipping with the euphoria the LSD gave him.

   "Very well. I'll be back in a few hours. Don't go anywhere," the man said. He turned off the light, turning away and leaving the van. It left Sherlock to his vices—but he couldn't stay awake. He fell asleep easier than he had expected, and it was a hellish sleep he despised.  
He just needed to recover…that's all…right?

* * *

     It was the sixth time that Lestrade watched the security tape of the Winter Killer and Sherlock fighting in a row that hour. He was working overtime in hopes of coming up with something— _anything_ —to give to John.

   They got a warrant to bring in Sherrinford Holmes and interrogate him, but Sherrinford's address was an abandoned warehouse. Upon calling Mycroft, it was made evident that Sherrinford was no longer allowed on European soil without being watched very closely by the government for classified reasons.

   The fight that went down between the two was—vicious. It was most certainly a surprising show of power from Sherlock. Lestrade knew that he could somewhat fight, but he was swift and deadly and fought to kill this time.

   The Winter Killer was planning to take Sherlock by surprise, but it was encountered with John's gun. That was when the thin spatter on the table was created.

   The fight was quick, but reckless, and at one point Sherlock's head was slammed hard enough on the coffee table that the glass cracked—and Lestrade knew how thick the table was. It had to be maybe seven inches thick. Why such a contraption was in John's living he did not know, but it dazed Sherlock and left him helpless on the ground.

   The attacker, then, pulled out a knife that was obscured by his black glove and cut into Sherlock's neck. He was left to bleed out for almost thirty seconds, but presumable black market paramedics came and saved his ass, and his body was replaced with the dud.

   "So that's what happened."

   Lestrade blinked and looked up over his shoulder. John was standing a few feet away, watching his laptop screen with a somber expression. The DI looked between the two before smiling a bit grimly. "Uh, yeah. It is. Sherlock's quite the fighter," he said. "But…"

   "But what?"

   "We've questioned your neighbors. They didn't hear gun shots," Lestrade said. "We've had this video tape looked over millions of times. It's real. So audio witnesses were either paid or drugged to hear no bloody evil. It's either that or whoever made this tape is a genius forger."

   John briefly smiled in amusement. "Mycroft has Sherrinford in custody," he informed. "I wanted you to be there for it so then you could pitch in your own questions."

   Lestrade looked at him in surprise. "Mycroft actually did that for the investigation?"

   "I doubt it," John said. "Sherrinford isn't good for Sherlock. He's the inspiration for Sherlock's controlled drug abuse and enthusiastic smoking."

   Lestrade cringed, closing his laptop and grabbing his coat. "Where is Sherrinford?"

   "Sherlock's flay."

   "Why there?"

   "I don't know, they wouldn't explain anything to me. But it's going to start pretty soon, and we need to hurry back."

   "Alright, then. Let's get going."

   The duo were quick to leave. They came to 221B Baker Street in a cab, practically running upstairs into the apartment where a brunette male was sitting. His hair was curly yet slicked back and his eyes were a hazel green that reflected Sherlock and Mycroft. He wore a simple grey v-neck shirt with a thick brown jacket over it, accompanied by jeans and work boots. He had war tags hanging on his neck, and he held a very relaxed yet guarded and dangerous posture. Mycroft was standing in front of him with a spiteful expression on his face.

   The stranger, Sherrinford, looked at them and smiled his greeting, oddly warm yet deadly. "Bloody wonderful to finally meet some of Sherlock's friends. I've heard many things about both of you."

   John half-squinted, half-frowned. "How, exactly?"

   Sherrinford's smile turned devious. "My network is slowly becoming international. I have eyes almost everywhere, and ears just about everywhere else."

   "Yes, we know," Mycroft said deridingly. "What we _don't_ know is why you suddenly abducted him and put him on the brink of death."

   "Come now, brother mine, I would only do one of those two things," he pointed out. "I've only been in Europe long enough to get from Norway to the UK via airlines. I arrived in London just yesterday night."

   "Yes, but whenever has travel fatigue slowed you down?" Mycroft asked. He gave his older brother a daring look. "You have a conduit right now looking over the baby brother you've kidnapped."

   "Whatever is happening isn't because of me," Sherrinford said. "I'm assuming you found something at his last known location. My blood?"

   "Correct."

   Sherrinford smiled in a way that made his eyes crinkle. "Of course it's my blood. Whenever is it not? But, I digress. I do have an alibi. I was at the airport all night, waiting for a ride."

   "Yes, I _know_ you have an alibi. I checked it. But you have a network, dear older brother. You wouldn't let it rot by absorbing hearsay."

   "Well, people have been hiring me to _know_ things."

   "Naturally."

   "What's your point?"

   "Have you heard of the Winter Killer?"

   "Yes."

   "He attacked Sherlock in John Watson's home. I watched that tape. Only you would fight the way the attacker did. I know it well."

   Sherrinford blinked. "My fighting style is common, yes?"

   "Not anymore."

   "Bummer, it's useful."

   "But _old_."

   "But of course it is. I'm _getting_ old."

   "You _are_ old."

   "You are incorrect, as ever. I am currently a middle-aged man who is retired from bloody work, drugs and kidnapping. I only came to Europe because of a job, and clearly it lead me to London. Not very comforting but it's a good paying one."

   "What is it?"

   "You've got a _DI_ standing here."

   "Right. John, make him go away."

   John looked at Lestrade, who blinked. "I didn't hear anything."

   "Awesome! Aw, I like Sherlock's friends. They're so nice," Sherrinford cooed.

   Mycroft rolled his eyes. "The _job_."

   "Kill the Winter Killer."  
"…You are doing it quite marvelously, then," Mycroft said with a low, threatening voice. "How much?"

   "Double digits."

   "You are as petty as ever."

   "Yes, well—I do believe my job will be done for me within a few upcoming months. He has law enforcement friends."

   "How do you know this?" Lestrade jumped to ask.

   "Sorry, can't say. Doctor-patient confidentiality."

   "Are you bloody _serious_? _Doctor-patient confidentiality_?" Lestrade sounded absolutely pissed.

   "Well…yes. I'm a psychiatrist for violent people," Sherrinford pointed out. "He and I have had some interesting conversations. But I can't say anything. I can't even be sure he's used a real name or face, honestly."

   Lestrade was breathless with antagonizing anger and John was just exasperated.

   Mycroft, however, was blank. "We're keeping a close eye on you. No more risks. It's too dangerous, and you might just destroy everything. Now get out, you arrogant sod."

   Sherrinford smiled. "Of course, brother mine. I do plan on visiting Sherlock if you ever find him, though."

   "No you won't."

   "Yes, I will, and you won't stop me."

   Mycroft glared in his own way, acting more like a cornered animal than himself. "Try me."

   "I guess we shall see," Sherrinford said as he stood up.

   "Hold on," Lestrade said. "What about the Winter Killer? It's a bloody serious on-going investigation. I _need_ information."  
"There really isn't much I can do," Sherrinford pointed out. He smiled almost smugly. "I haven't seen him in over five years."

* * *

 

      "That was frustrating," Sherlock's captor said as he lumbered back into the front seat of the van. He sat down and started to eat some beef jerky—but he was interrupted by the sound of a clearing throat. He looked over to the passenger seat, blinking in surprise when he saw Sherrinford. He grumped. "You _sod_."

   Sherrinford smiled. "It's alright, I haven't ruined anything. As far as the government is concerned, I'm in a hotel somewhere over yonder."

   "Then what's with the visit? You said you wouldn't," the jerky-eater pointed out.

   "I miss my results," Sherrinford pointed out. "I haven't seen him in _years_."

   "He's sleeping his high off."

   "What did you give him?"

   "Whatever you suggested."

   "Heroin and morphine?"

   "Nah, heroin and LSD. Couldn't get my hands on any morphine in time."

   "Bummer. But I guess it's nice new little experience. How has he reacted?"

   "Well, he keeps muttering about little people and the alphabet."

   "How bad will the withdrawal be?"

   "I injected fifteen milliliters of heroin and gave him just enough LSD to make him feel _happy_."

   Sherrinford grinned. "My, you'll be screwing his brain chemistry over by tenfold at this rate," he said.

   "Do you want me to change it? The poor bloke was scared out of his life at the mere mention of heroin."

   "Hm, no, no…maybe water down the dosage of heroin," Sherrinford said. He pulled out his phone and started to surf with an indifferent expression. "Actually—no. How about you make sure he actually falls asleep when you get him back, hmm?"

   "What do you mean?"  
"He's _gone_ , Anderson, you deteriorated moron."

   Anderson's eyes widened as he looked to the back of the van. Indeed, Sherlock was gone. The cuffs were hanging at the side of the gurney. "Dammit…" he muttered. He looked to Sherrinford. "Do you have—"

   "He's heading back to John Watson's house," Sherrinford said, still not looking away from his phone screen.

   "How do you know that?"

   "Statistics," Sherrinford said absently. "Get him back within two hours. My patience is thin tonight, and I'm not willing to give anything else other than time. So I suggest you _hurry_."

   "Is there any specific way you want—"

   "My, look at the time. You're expected back here in one hour, fifty-nine minutes and forty-two, forty-one, forty—"

   "I'll be back soon," Anderson said uneasily.

   Sherrinford merely hummed and waved him off. But when the door shut itself, he smiled deviously. "Clever you, boy. I've trained you well in the art of con."

   He turned around to the back, slipping his phone away and turned his grinning expression over to his wheezing and deadbeat injured baby brother Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i could probably take a good number of shots if i played a foreshadowing drinking game lol
> 
> anyways
> 
> afternotes author notes (lol):  
> 1\. how is it so far?  
> 2\. mini chapters that involve more sherlock deducting shit and lestrade interacting with mycroft and stuff will pop up. they're fillers but they'll likely be relevant to the plot.


	3. The Escapee, My Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To be, or not to be. That is the question, and Sherlock doesn't have an answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cool, an update! lol enjoy :3

_ The Escapee, My Brother _

* * *

 

      Sherlock has been missing for a week by now. Statistically, it was impossible for a kidnapped victim to be alive—and for him to be in the hands of the Winter Killer, he would imagine that the survival rate was tenfold lower. Not to mention, he had a horrendous wound right over his carotid artery that most certainly cut into the major vessel.  
It was terrifying, and with Mary's due date creeping up on them faster than ever, his stress was…heavy.

   It was midnight when he got a call from Lestrade, who sounded winded and a bit panicked. The Yard had gotten an anonymous tip that there was a bomb out in Hyde Park, hidden in an abandoned warehouse tucked away in an unheard corner. The park was shut down, and a bomb squad was sent in, but it had only been a grenade propped perfectly to be triggered by the sniff of a dog. Upon further investigation, the Winter Killer's signature was found.

   Usually, Sherlock would be called in—but Sherlock wasn't around, and Lestrade was hoping with as much desperation as he could muster that John would be able to pitch in some sort of fancy opinion.  
And John did. He left and came to the park, and what he found were green-faced squeamish policemen and women. Lestrade gave him a crooked smile, letting it drop just as quickly as it came. There were people getting each other under control and authorities were checking the surroundings for any other bomb or something life-threatening of a sort with trained dogs at the end of their leashes.

   "Is everyone alright?" John asked.

   "Yes, we're all just a bit shaken up," Lestrade stated. "It's not like this hasn't happened before, though. This one was a whole lot cleaner than the other. The grenade just exploded as a whole other mechanism. After that, the body fell."

   "Can I see?"

   "They're still searching for other bombs. You won't be able to observe for long."

   "Fine by me. I'll make do with what I got," John replied.

   Lestrade nodded and turned away, guiding the soldier through the crime scene and into the warehouse. They barely needed to step inside to see a man hanging from a long rope, a noose tightly wrapped around his neck. His body was low enough so that his intestine hung down, forming a loop and touching the floor. The ends were tucked into his split open stomach, and his cheeks were cut into to the teeth. His jaw was hanging and blood coated almost his entire front.

   "Who is he?" John asked as he slipped on a pair of laged gloves, climbing up a ladder tall enough to get him to the height of his stomach.

   "Steven Wallis. He was a nurse at Baltimore, but he went missing two weeks ago. Forensics predict he's been dead for at least one week, give or take a day," Lestrade explained. "He died of a drug overdosage. Everything was done post-mortem."

   John cringed at that and stepped down the latter. "The intestine here," John said as he pointed at the curve of the loop, "is too bloated. Can I cut it open—see if there's anything in there?"

   "Sure thing," Lestrade said. He had one of his forensics come over with a kit equipped to do the job. He handed it to John, who opened it up and pulled the scalpel out.

   John looked over to the red-headed female forensic. "Could you lend me a hand?" he asked.

   She blinked and looked at Lestrade briefly, who nodded his permission. She joined John and gave him a shy smile of greeting. "What do you need?"

   "Hold his intestine up, will you?" he asked.

   She looked hesitant for a brief second before she did what she was asked, her hands cupping around the intestine and holding it up flat enough to enable John a clean cut.

   There was a rather unhealthy sounding squelch of flesh being opened—and when it was opened, they both cringed.

   "What is it?"

   "A fetus," John said, his hand cupping around its back. He pulled it out, and looked to the red head for an evidence bag. "Probably the last victim's fetus."

   "Gross," the red-head muttered as she opened a bag. John gently tucked the undeveloped unborn in, his face still twisted in disgust.

   "He's getting awfully symbolic with the whole baby theme," John noted. He looked at Lestrade. "Were there any scratch marks on Mr. Wallis?"

   "Yes, a fingernail scratch on his left collarbone," the DI replied as the duo exited the warehouse with green faces. "It was made around the same time our first victim popped up, so it's fairly safe to say that that the other bodies are preserved and hidden. We've put out an APB on any suspicious activity about any missing persons in the last months. Not to mention, the DNA tests are slowly showing evidence of the tissue being collected after the upcoming victims were killed." He looked at John. "Could you find anything?"

   "He was cut open by shaking hands. A very sharp knife likely did it, and because of his inability to have stable hands, the edges were jagged. But the pattern was rather suspicious. At first I thought it was just a coincidence, but I looked at the other side and it was a completely different pattern. Very similar to morse code."

   "Did you see what it said?"

   "Yes…luckily, I know my morse code. It spelled out A-N-D-E-R-S-O-N," John said.

   Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "As in the name?"

   "I wouldn't make another theory."

   "Do you think Sherlock made that code?"

   John paused to think about it. It was wholly likely. He had been kidnapped by the Winter Killer, after all. "I can see it happening…but if he did this…"

   "I doubt he had enough time to finish. He had his neck cut," Lestrade pointed out.

   "Is he talking about Phillip Anderson as in the former forensic head?"

   Lestrade stopped at that, his eyes squinting. "I haven't heard from him in…months, maybe even a year or so."

   "Do you know where he is now?"

   "No. In fact, I don't think anybody does. Nobody has heard from Anderson since…Sherlock returned."

   John blinked in surprise. That was certainly…

   "I…I think we might have a suspect."

    _Exciting_.

* * *

      Five more mornings passed, five more bodies were found. Anderson has been hunted down, and he was found lurking in John's neighborhood. He was arrested for attacking John upon being spotted—and upon further questioning and legal threats of fines, jail time and intimidating with the experiences in jail, he revealed that he was actually a proxy.

   A _proxy_.

   Of the _Winter Killer_.

   It was absolutely frustrating to know that it wasn't actually him.

   To top it all off, Sherlock _still_ hasn't been heard from, and the only thing they could get out of Anderson was, "Who?"

   Sherrinford was kept close to Mycroft. The British government made sure he didn't leave, eat, sleep, bathe or even talk without their knowing. John wasn't sure if he wanted to be relieved or discomforted by it.

   A sixth body showed up at midnight on New Year's Day. It was a blonde woman, Rosalinda, who lived down the street from John. She was pregnant woman with an brown-haired husband whose hair greyed and eyes were blue, and they had just recently moved in from Belgravia.

   However, this time, her child was _alive_. It was born merely weeks early, and had been birthed by the Winter Killer himself. Her labor was likely to be forced, and in the end it played a part in killing her.  
It compelled John to just…hug Mary and keep her close as they sat on the couch idly chatting and reading a book out loud to their to-be daughter.

   After that, everything was deathly silent. Everyday was carried out almost perfectly; John got up, went to work, came back home for lunch, went back to work, and then was eating dinner with Mary at five in the evening. After that, he would just generally spend time with his wife, sometimes making errands for her and helping her clean up and, if he got home early enough, he would help her cook dinner.

   But, on the other side of London, there was an asylum with a padded room meant purely for Sherlock Holmes. There was no visible door that could be opened from the inside. There was only a slot that allowed food, water and drugs to come and go and the only bathroom he had was a hole in the corner with a bucket that was pulled out once every two days to be cleaned or replaced. It limited Sherlock's ability to be free. Not to mention, he was high on LSD and cocaine almost daily, taking small doses and just generally sitting in the corner with an irritated neck and painful arm.

   Occasionally, he would get a needle filled with heroin—and honestly those were the days he rejoiced in being able to stop the horrible drug withdrawal symptoms. He's never felt so depressed in his life.

   Sherrinford visited him once or twice, often sitting and chatting and talking to Sherlock like he was his psychiatrist. It was all rather annoying and the boredom he suffered from was a grating feeling that made him scratch the skin behind his ears and on his wrists raw.  
To say the least, life wasn't going anywhere bright for him throughout the months of January and February.

   And he could remember, crisp and clear, that the baby was going to be born in the beginning of March.

   The third was his mark. The week after is his green.

   "What are you thinking about?"

   Sherlock turned his head over to Sherrinford. "Next and final kill," he slurred, the LSD messing with his sight up with colors in places they really shouldn't be. White was the absence of color and yet there was color dancing about them, shaping endlessly into different little people. It really ticked him off but he was too euphoric to care.

   "You're not going to kill anymore after this?"

   "No."

   "Why? You are very good at it. I'm sure you inspired a new killer somewhere out there in the world."

   "Well, you understand being humbled by a child," Sherlock muttered, his head leaning against the wall. He was deadbeat exhausted, having not obtained the proper amount of sleep for weeks on end. "I'm feeling regret for it all, and I'm mad at myself for it."

   "You want to avenge your kill streaks with this one final kill?" he asked.

   Sherlock hummed quietly, his eyes closing. Distorted visions of Mary's face brushed against his mind's eye, and a baby's face, and John's face…it's honestly been so very long since he's last seen them. He missed them…

   He didn't want to kill Mary anymore. But Sherrinford doesn't count on changed minds till the last minute, and Sherlock has the upper hand this time.

   "Who is it?"

   "She's A.G.R.A," he mumbled

   "Really? I though they were dead. Female? Probably Rosamund, I've heard of some activity that could possible point to her…but she is careful."

   "She goes by Mary now," Sherlock pointed out defensively.

   "Adorable. Where is she now?"

   "John Watson."

   "Ah, I see. She's Mary Watson now, is she?"

   "Yeah," Sherlock muttered. "Don't kill her straight away. Plan it out. Bring her here. I want to kill her myself."

   "I hear she's pregnant."

   "After the tenth of March, you can make your move," Sherlock mumbled.

   Sherrinford's smile could practically be felt. "That's about two weeks away," he said, and that was very true.

   Sherlock wanted out, and Mary would be his means.

* * *

      Mary had called John fifty-nine times while he was at work. And he instantly knew that she was going into labor.

   He got to her as soon as possible, risking a speeding fine, and they were rushing to the hospital as quickly as they could.

   She was taken to the labor room while John anxiously waited with everybody else. He paced and sat and stared and moved his fingers between each other every few seconds. He pulled out his phone to text Molly and Mrs. Hudson about the news. He didn't expect them to respond right away—they were likely doing something that distracted them from their phone, but the typing itself gave him some relief.

   He even contemplated texting Lestrade or Mycroft, but he didn't know what to say.

   So, instead, he roamed his messages for a bit, reading some old conversations with friends he hasn't spoken to in months.

   But above them all was Sherlock's conversation. John felt a bit sad as he opened it and scrolled through the messages. Most of the time it was Sherlock asking him for something, whether it be information, area scouting, evidence collecting, or actual questions that scale from being the most cryptic to the dumbest questions John has ever heard coming from a genius's mouth. It was quite humorous all the same though.  
John missed it, and he held out hope that Sherlock was somewhere— _anywhere_ —and Sherrinford would be brought down for what he's done whether it be in the past, present or future.

   He couldn't go much further into the fairly ancient conversation though, because after three hours of anxiety and patience, baby Watson was born.

   John could never have felt happier.

* * *

 

      Sherlock, despite still being a captive, had his phone. Sherrinford hacked into it and made it so that he only got notifications—and even then he could only look at them.

   He's only had it for a few weeks, but since then, he's gotten hundreds of sympathetic Twitter follows, "prayer" tweets, and people tagged him in things that basically said "pray for Sherlock Holmes". It was ridiculous because he never saw the point in praying. _Praying_ only slammed people with hopelessness.

   It was the third of March when he got an actual text notification— _who the bloody hell would text a kidnapped victim?_ —from the one and only John Watson.

   He was high when he read it. His distorted vision and perception of depth was fairly screwed up. At first he was literally trying to read the flowing colors on the absence-of-colors surface, and it honestly made him laugh.

   But he got around to reading it. It took him quite a few unnecessary minutes and his hands wouldn't stay still, but the gist was…it was heart-warming in all of his pain and loneliness and isolation. The last visit was from a nurse last week? He couldn't remember. _Maybe it was yesterday._

   Rosamund Mary Watson— _Holmes by blood_ , Sherlock recited—was born at midnight on 4 March 2016. She was five pounds and seven ounces and had amazingly loud lungs. John even took it a step further and sent a picture of the trio with their newborn daughter. Molly, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade were squished together on the other side of the hospital bed. Sherlock didn't notice at first. In fact, he would've missed it if it weren't for the lipstick Molly wore— _she doesn't wear lipstick; only Mrs. Hudson does…and what does that even_ mean—and in that moment he felt missed. And he was missing them.

   Sherlock felt a heavy pang of emotions hollow out his stomach. This was his mark. A few more days would be his green.

   He jumped a little at the very annoyingly loud sound of the door swinging open. The bright light was unnervingly loud, and he couldn't help but glare and squint at whoever entered. It was likely Sherrinford.

   "I'm getting AGRA," Sherrinford stated. "Expect company within a few hours. No more drugs, Sher. You need to stay sober."

   Sherlock blinked in slight confusion at that. He instantly felt terror for the withdrawal—but at the same time he anticipated it fairly well. He knew Sherrinford would've pulled him off of the drugs somewhere within a three month time frame of his kidnapping.

   But regardless, Sherlock agreed. He would need to remain sober in order to escape, and he wasn't even sure if waiting a few hours would be enough.  
It would have to be, though.  
Sherlock sighed through his short breaths and violently shaking hands, his eyes closing. He could only catch thirty minutes of sleep before he woke up again, and it stayed with him throughout the countdown of Mary's arrival—which he didn't know.

   In fact, he wasn't too sure if it was actually the fourth because he could've been looking at the time. But that created doubt because Sherrinford seemed to know—but that bastard has a wonderfully perfect sense of deception. If Sherrinford was the main character of the story, nobody would know what was going on because he was a refined and educated man with surprising knowledge of psychology.

   Sherlock, however, felt himself snap out of it with a toothy grin. "Nope, nope…" he muttered tiredly as he rubbed his dry eyes of exhaustion. The padded door swung open at that moment, and somebody was tossed into the room without any mercy. "You can't do that to me, Sherrinford, you _idiot_ —I _know_ what time it is…"

   Sherrinford chuckled. "I'm sure you do, brother mine."

   Sherlock flinched and glared at him with a dark expression. "Shut up," he snarled. "Don't call me that—that ruins _everything_."

   "Brother?"

   " _Yes_! Yes, that horrible acronym? No, not acronym. Sherrinford, _shut up_. Don't say anything. I'm _agitated_. You're giving me a knife and kill— _don't_ push my buttons."

   "Oh dearie, you don't understand your position well enough," Sherrinford said with a degree of well-practiced sympathetic. "You won't make it out. You wouldn't even survive two years outside of what you have here."

   Sherlock sneered, his aforementioned agitation rising as the same hunting knife to kill Steven Wallis was thrown near Mary without a care. They'd have to see how true Sherrinford's statement was. Sherlock would most definitely with all horns pointed forward get out and survive more than two years—whether it be by day, night, month or decade.

   Sherlock's hands were still violently shaking though and his ears were ringing. His vision was still thoroughly distorted and waving—he almost tripped over Mary—and his head was hurting like hell. His eyes were swollen with the horrible lack of sleep and most likely red and sunken with hellish drug abuse. Heroin was a rarely used drug for Sherlock, even under Sherrinford's watch, and he knew that the puncture wounds would scar. He was probably reaching the point where puss and scabs would've scattered his face.

   "Sherlock."

   He flinched in surprise, turning around and looking over to…a blonde woman. He frowned. "I was doing something," he said. "Something important. Something _really_ important. Actually, _no_ —what's the date? The fifth? Fourth?" He paused. "…Fourth of what? July. Wait, _no_ , it's not the summertime, something _important_ happened sometime ago? _Right_? It involved me. So it has to be March, but it feels more like July. Maybe June. Hm, makes you wonder though. Is it July? Or June, or March. March is the birth month? But it _can't be July_. My time is so messed up—I think it's lack of…what do you call it? I don't know if it even has a term, it's a general sentence more like. Now, what was I doing…?"

   "Sherlock—"

   "You know what, Mycroft probably saw Sherrinford. He always does but I have my doubts. I have a rough estimate of one hour—and I need a tree for my project…wait, no. It's called a _presentation_. Hey, did you know that I deleted whole constellations for John…? That's an odd way to spell…J-O-H-N…John…Jon…Jones…Jonas…Jane…haha, Dr. Joan Watson…"

   "Sherlock Holmes, _turn around and look at me_."

   " _What_ ," he snapped harshly, finally turning around and looking at Mary with wide eyes and a racing mind that inhabited a body which only had maybe a decade or less to live—too many drugs and the withdrawal _will_ be hell. He blinked in surprise when he saw that Mary was crying. She was lying on her side, her hands cuffed behind her back and her lip split. She was dressed in some old crappy clothing that Sherrinford probably made her wear and there was a purple circle on her forehead.

   He frowned and pointed at the area on his own forehead. "What's that thing you call…? Like, when you… _oh_!" He gasped. "No— _no_ , never mind. It's similar to a grape, though, isn't it? And apples get them just as easily…anything with tender flesh does though right? It's a…biological thing. But does that mean plants get them too? Oh— _fascinating_ …"

   "Sherlock," Mary repeated. She sniffed and slowly sat up, her shoulders shaking with relief as she continued crying. "You're alive…thank God…"

   Sherlock opened his mouth to retort something that was probably insensitive, but he couldn't recall it. He found himself to be distracted by her crying. He was feeling very disconnected from it, but it triggered something enough in him that it caught his attention and made him genuinely stare. He blinked at her before he finally snapped out of it, his frown pinching his face. He sighed a few times and rubbed his eyes with the bases of his wrist. "Hm, how long has it been? It's been a…whole long time…" he rambled. "I don't think I've—sobered in, _days_? No, no, I remember _precisely_ being high since last week."

   Mary stood up and moved her hands to reveal that they had been freed from her cuffs. Sherlock's eyebrow raised to his hairline as he squinted, trying to see properly. It was absolutely ridiculous but the absence of saturation was throwing him off. And he didn't notice that she was approaching him. It made him wary, because she was AGRA and AGRA was a _very_ sophisticated gun-for-hire.

   Sherrinford hired them once. Sherlock watched them work, in person, from a distance and that is only how he knew who Mary Morstan was.

   "Oh, Sherlock…" she murmured. "I feel like I'm hugging a skeleton…" Her hand rubbed against his ribcage, her fingers able to count and touch every single one easily. "Is this where you've been the whole time?"

   Sherlock honestly couldn't say that for himself. He remembered dreaming while conscious high, falling back to the days of when he was a young boy running around with Redbeard, along with his older sister and brothers in the distance eyeing him and making sure he didn't tread too far while they were enjoying the tide.

   But he would also remember hanging out in his childhood home library, where all the books were—the _good_ ones. Some were American. Some were Japanese. A lot of them were foreign, really. He learned basic language rules that way and could teach some basic grammar rules for English and Russian.

   Then there were the days he remembered the terror Sherrinford unleashed on the house. He subdued it while they were out in public—but later he would always lash out. Sherlock was usually the main outlet, being the most observant of the four children, and Eurus—his oldest sister—was too tired of him and left. Mycroft was his confidence; Redbeard died because Sherrinford needed a kill to quell his anger. Eurus sometimes felt angry, too, and broke Sherrinford's back once when he was ten and another two times when he was sixteen and twenty.

   That circle of hate was still alive to this day. Sherlock knew that Eurus would break Sherrinford's bones again if she heard what was happening. And their parents might approve.

   "Sherlock, where are you?"

   He didn't answer. He just buried his cold face into her shoulder and stayed that way for many minutes. He was thinking. It brought him back to Redbeard— _everything did_ —and he couldn't help his eyes burn with sadness.  
At some point, he didn't know when, they sunk to the floor and he was curling into her for comfort. Human contact was something he was missing.

   … _That was it_ ; he was searching for that general term earlier…"human contact". Taking it from an assassin was pure desperation at this point—but he wasn't picky. He would have taken comfort from an old frail stranger on the street anytime if Mary or John or Molly or Eurus—somebody, _anybody_ —hadn't come along.

   "You are quite a mess," Mary murmured. "How often have you been getting high?"

   Sherlock hummed. "Once or twice every three days, sometimes a week or hours…" he muttered quietly, shifting his head to look at the hunting knife wobbling in his hands. "I barely ate…I usually got water…"

   "You have a knife today."

   "Sherrinford wants me to kill you," he lire.

   "Why?"

   "Well—no, you're the…final," he slurred. " _Finale_. I've been planning it for months…years? No, _months_ …"

   Mary stroked his hair a little. "Why?" She did her best to not sound choked up. Really, she did. But her voice shook regardlessly and her heart rate escalated with hurt and fear.

   "Do me a favor," he grumbled.  
"…What?"

   "Play dead."

   "Wh—"

   "I'm going to stab you, _play dead_."

   Mary blinked in surprise, but prepared herself. She expected to actually be stabbed. Sherlock's cognition was clearly messed up with the amount of drugs he's taken over the time period he's been held captive…and she suspected that he was a killer of a sort. An experienced one, possibly. One who was creative and active.

   She could only think of the Winter Killer.

   "Sherlock," she murmured. "Before you…you kill me…can I ask what's happened to you…?"

   Sherlock went silent and still, apart from his shaking body and short breaths. His hand suddenly reached out and patted something—likely a dog.

   Mary noticed with a gentle sigh and held him closer knowing he was hallucinating something from his past. But i _t ended quickly, and Sherlock Holmes stabbed her._

_And John got to see it from the slit of the tray deliver._

   "Is that what you saw happen?" Lestrade asked.

   John sucked in a shaky and nervous breath, but he nodded. "Yes—yeah…" he muttered. "There was blood and she was bleeding."

   "Why isn't she in the hospital, then?"

   "Because…she's fine."

    _There was a shivering pause that John felt when he entered the asylum. Nobody was inside but he knew exactly where he was going. Mycroft finally got a signal on Sherl_ ock's phone; Sherrinford " _allowed_ " for it.

   The room Sherlock was said to be in had a large steel door and a lock. The key was tapped to the wall with a note saying that it was for John and that Sherrinford wished for much luck in his journey of retrieving his kidnapped wife and best friend.

   He flipped open the slit where trays of food normally would be delivered, his eyes looking into a white padded room. Mary and Sherlock— _Sherlock, so frail…much like a breathing skeleton with his sunken face and thin build and pale skin; his shaking hands and hoarse short breaths and dilated pupils screamed high and drug withdrawal…but…he was fine—_ were against a wall, Mary's arms wrapped tightly around Sherlock. Her eyes were swollen and stained from crying, and she generally looked relieved.  
But then there was blood. It was pooling onto the floor— _coming from_ Mary _, Mary was bleading_ —and Mary fell limp into Sherlock, her expression draining itself free of life.

  Sherlock put her against the wall, laying her down with a bloody knife and bloody hand clutched to her head. He was still shaking, and he was standing on weak legs, but he showed no physical response to shame or remorse of any sort.

   Sherlock turned around, aged gauze wrapped around his neck. He truly did look like a skeleton. He was extremely pale. His skin was almost chalky and his eyes were red from general use and exhaustion.

   John jumped back when his distant sea blue eyes looked at him, his face twisting into an expression he didn't get to see in time. He put his hand on his gun when the door swung open, revealing Sherlock in a heavy coat with another jacket underneath it. It was zipped halfway up to reveal a white t-shirt, stained with red. His sweatpants were dark with blood, too, and there were some drops on his bare feet.

   "You killed Mary," he said shakily.

   Sherlock blinked apathetically at him, turning and looking at the blonde. John hesitantly followed his line of sight—but Mary was looking at him. As in, she was li _ving and looking at him in the eye. He flinched at that, and he felt even more shooked up when she winked and went back to playing dead._

   "Where did all the blood come from?" Lestrade inquired.

   "Sherlock slit his wrist," John stated, tracing his finger over the base of his wrist. "He hit a vein."

   The DI raised an eyebrow. "And he didn't die of blood loss?"

   "No…I managed to patch him up in time."

   "And what happened after you saw him?"

   "Sherrinford happened."

    _John couldn't believe his eyes. He felt absolute relief, because Mary was al_ ive. She was… _pretending_. "Sherlock, what did you do…?" he asked, his voice shaking with his heart beating. He's never felt so much relief in his life. At the same time, he felt sad. Sherlock's condition looked worse than death. "You…you _utter_ cock…" His voice wavered out and he shivered.

   Sherlock smiled a little. John practically jumped at him and wrapped his arms tightly around his shoulders, his face burying itself into the nape of Sherlock's neck. His breath hitched a little when he felt Sherlock's shaking arms wrap around him again. It was like holding a bag of bones, or clinging onto a skeleton wearing clothes that were meant to fight a more meaty person.

   "I was so, _so_ worried…" John murmured, sniffing and crying quietly. "You've beeb gone for _so long_ …I didn't think you were even alive…"

   Sherlock nodded his agreement, taking John's gun and walking away further down the hall. "Come now, John. We haven't gotten all day. Sherrinford is waiting," he stated as if they hadn't seen one another in hours rather than months.

**Author's Note:**

> another few notes to end this chapter with:
> 
> 1\. story will be defined by arcs. the arcs have a name. this arcs name is "Cold", and heavily relies on the next arc fr endings.  
> 2\. hounds of baskerville never happened.  
> 3\. ciro is a surprise  
> 4\. again, SPOILERS for series 4. i've ignored spoilers warnings before (don't do it lol)


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